


Sympathy for the Devil

by Orilynn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, Family, Female Friendship, Mental Health Issues, Obsession, Possession, sympathetic monsters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2018-10-07 09:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10357047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orilynn/pseuds/Orilynn
Summary: The Dark WorldThe Warden-Commander may be broken, but that doesn't keep her from trying to fix people, spirits, and monsters alike. Heartbroken by what has become of her old friends, Anders and Justice, she tries to free them of their anger by freeing them of each other, but Justice may soon find that she has some corrupting qualities of her own, not to mention her dark obsession with the Architect's mad scribblings. Hawke is probably going to kill her when she finds out.Takes place before, during, and after Inquisition, with only some mentions of its events; brief mentions of the events of The Calling. Features some fudgery of cannon/lore involving spirits, possesion, and the taint for plot purposes.





	1. Prologue - Distance

[view cover art here](https://the-purple-sparrow.deviantart.com/art/Sympathy-for-the-Devil-Cover-Art-732265814)

**Sympathy for the Devil**

A tale of darkness, and the sort of people you find lurking within.

**Prologue – Distance**

**9:37 Dragon**

A knock at the door roused Leandra from her daydreaming. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she’d taken a seat at her desk, wrapped tightly in her comforter – how long it had been since she’d awoken, screaming, from her nightmare.  She could not tear her eyes away from their spot, focused straight ahead on the dark wood of her desk.

She called out, her voice wavering, “Yes?”

Varel stood, peering in, looking about as exhausted as she felt and she wondered, then, if she had awoken him – his room _was_ next door. “Someone to see you, ma’am,” he said. The softness of his voice and his eyes, as she finally looked up at him, hinted that she was right. He was trying to show her pity – or something like it.

“So late?” she half-choked. Her voice was not as strong as she’d hoped it would be. She was not as strong as she’d hoped she would be.

“Shall I tell her to come back in the morning, ma’am?” He was giving her an out.

She contemplated this option for a moment – she contemplated his pity for her, his gentility – before she spoke. “No.” The sudden hardness in her voice made her cringe. Her voice softened to a wistful sigh as she continued, “No, send her in.” Her voice, and bottom lip, trembled as she did so.

The seneschal bowed out and returned a few minutes later with a woman, a bindle slung over her shoulder, stone-faced, lips pulled tightly into razor sharp edges. She had a short but thick, unevenly cut bob of auburn hair. Her short, fat nose and full cheeks were lightly freckled, a youthful touch that did not agree with her solemn face.

“Presenting a Miss Revka Amell, ma’am,” Varel said, a touch of something – confusion, perhaps – lurking somewhere beneath his tired and droopy features. He ushered the woman into the room. He stood, unsure, in the doorway.

Leandra gave him an appreciative, if subtle, smile. She had always been weary of strangers – this he knew. Her lips quirked upward as she spoke, her eyes glazing over. “That was my mother’s name,” she said slowly, but this woman was too young to be her mother – perhaps five years older than herself, but not more.

There was a brief silence as the stranger looked the Warden-Commander over – this woman with the same, thick, curly hair – though much longer than her own – the same porcelain skin, who had her eyes; they were her mother’s eyes, her sister’s eyes, her uncle’s eyes. She had come here on a whim, thinking it foolish to hope… but no, there was no denying the family resemblance between them. The evidence of generation upon generation of careful breeding and noble blood.

“Have you eaten?” Leandra asked her, and she shook her head no. “Varel, would you mind –“

“Of course.”

She watched him disappear, shutting the door behind him, and turned back to her visitor. She stood, finally, shedding her comforter. “Revka _Hawke_ , I presume?”

“It would have been unwise –“

“It was unwise to come here in the first place,” Leandra said, sounding more tired than anything. “Your mother – my namesake – reached out to me after…”

“After Carver died.” This, Hawke knew. Her mother had lost two of her children, and was desperate to know her family. She regretted that they could not have met. “I am aware that there are rumours regarding our relation, but you have to understand that I had little choice because I… I’m in a spot of trouble.” Leandra quirked an eyebrow. “There’s a little person growing inside of me and all I have left of my family is my good-for-nothing uncle. Everyone is _dead_ ,” tears had formed in her eyes, “and I need help.” She shut her eyes tightly, and the tear began to trail down her cheeks.

“The world is a dark, cruel place,” Leandra said, her breath catching in her throat. She let out a shaky breath. “That does not mean that its inhabitants must be devoid of compassion, Revka Hawke. I will help you – of course I will help you – but you should know now that I am not the hero they say I am. I am brave, but I am not strong.”

“I am good at being strong, but I am not good at being brave,” Hawke admitted, her shaky voice leveling out. “In fact, Warden-Commander, I am very afraid.”

Leandra reached out and put a hand on her cousin’s shoulder. “Please, call me Leandra.”

Hawke shook her head, “I cannot. My mother, she…” Died in her arms, and she couldn’t have done anything to stop it – no, she could have, but she was too late.

“Lee, then.” Alistair had called her that, voice ringing with affection, eyes crinkling as he smiled – that was a lifetime ago, now. He’d been gone longer than she’d known him, but she could not shake him – she could not rid herself of his ghost, of happy memories of him, now tainted with the sadness of his death, distant and lost. “I had a friend, once, who called me Lee.”

There was a knock at the door, then, followed by a muffled. “Ma’am?”

Leandra strode past Hawke and opened the door. Varel had a tray with some foodstuffs and a bottle of wine balanced in one hand, a spare chair in the other. He came in and wordlessly set the tray down on the desk and the chair down next to other. They watched him as he did this – he took two glasses from the tray, opened the wine, but did not bother to pour it, then made his way back to the door – and Leandra gave him a soft, “Thank you,” as she closed the door behind him.

They took their seats. Leandra poured them both some wine, but did not bother with the food. Hawke, however, was near ravenous. Leandra watched, sipping from her glass, for a time before she cleared her throat – a question had been itching at the back of her mind. “What of the child’s father?”

Hawke set the morsel of chicken she’d been picking at down on the tray. She chewed slowly for a moment, then swallowed. “We left Kirkwall together, traveled south for a time… He saw me onto a ship… Last I saw him, he was headed North again, to Starkhaven. I have a friend there who will see to his safety. It’s best he and I do not keep in direct contact. You know, for… reasons.”

Leandra nodded, half a smile gracing her lips. It was then that Hawke the scar that ran from her left nostril to her chin – it pulled the corner of her mouth down into a permanent half-frown. Leandra crossed her legs and leaned forward, having noticed Hawke’s gaze. She brushed aside the curtain of hair that hid the side of her face from view. There was a second scar that ran from her brow down past the corner of her eye, and a third and fourth that reached from the edge of her hairline to her jaw. She swallowed hard and said, softly, “From the Battle of Denerim.

“I was meant to make the ultimate sacrifice that day, to kill the Archdemon. Alistair was meant to live – to rule beside Queen Anora. We… argued. When it came down to it, I was not at my best, and Alistair… he –“ She looked down at her lap. “In the end, he didn’t let me do it – didn’t give me the choice.” Hawke reached for her hand.

There was a prolonged silence, but it was not uncomfortable. Leandra hadn’t spoken of it since it happened – she had refused to. But this felt… good. Hawke understood – she knew how it felt to lose someone you loved. She held onto her hand, squeezing tightly, and turned her gaze from her cousins eyes downward, where she noticed the scars that wound down her neck, across her shoulder, disappearing into the deep cut of her nightgown.

Leandra wiped the tears from her eyes with the knuckles of her loose fist. “Now _those –_ those were from a werewolf.”

“You aren’t –“

“No. Maker, no.” She actually laughed at that, albeit shakily. Cheekily, she added, "I made sure to put an end to that whole curse business."

 

They conversed for the better part of two hours, over their wine, bread, cheese and chicken, until the fire began to die down. When Leandra got up to throw another log in the fireplace, Hawke said,

“I won’t be able to stay here in the Keep.”

“That much is obvious,” Leandra answered almost teasingly. The wine was doing her disposition some good, bringing the colour back to her cheeks. “I have a place out in the forest. I spend a lot of my free time there – nobody dares to disturb me there.”

“What,” Hawke said, “you have you own evil lair?”

Leandra turned to her, a bemused smirk on her face. “A more apt description than you may think.” She returned to her seat and took in a sharp breath, then paused, briefly, before continuing, decidedly more gravely, “Have you ever, pray tell, heard of the Architect?”

Hawke’s brow furrowed. “Anders used to give lectures on the subject. It was an intelligent Darkspawn, yes?”

She scoffed, remembering how Anders used to call himself the foremost authority on the subject. “He _is_ a _brilliant_ Darkspawn – though he is more than that.” There was a sort of desperate excitement to her voice – she spoke the way you speak of guilty pleasures – the way Hawke spoke about terribly written erotic serials – in hushed tones. “He parted ways with his dwellings when I spared him, many years ago, now, and he left _everything_ – what seems like decades of research. He could cut off other Darkspawn from the Calling – from the pull of the Old Gods – and I’ve been searching for a way to do the same for myself.”

“So, you spend your free time in a creepy cave?” Hawke asked.

“You jest, but…” She trailed off, closing her eyes. “As I said, I am not strong.” She opened her eyes again. Her voice began to waver as she spoke, “I close my eyes, and I see fire and death. I wake up some nights, screaming bloody murder – Maker, the nightmares… my people know. They hear me. They’ve seen me cower at the sound of steel on steel, traversing the training grounds. People look at me, and they see fear, they see scars. They all look at me with pity in their eyes. It’s nice to have somewhere to go, to be by myself.”

“Being a hero in itself can be isolating, because people both fear and revere us. What’s important is that we cling to our steadfast friends – that we don’t lose ourselves to the tales of hyperbole that we cannot hope to live up to, or the mistakes or regrets of our past – things we, the real, live people – not the heroes of legend – could not have hoped to change.”

There was a moment of silence. “I’m not sure which is more isolating – the fear, or the reverence,” Leandra said, choking out a laugh.

“An isolated mage is like –“

“I’m a beacon of light in the darkness, calling to demons, I know.” She took a deep breath. “But, you see, I am not afraid to die.”

 

Leandra had a bath drawn for Hawke shortly thereafter to ease the ache of travel.  She lent her a spare nightgown and laid out a simple travel outfit for the following morning and set aside a few changes of clothes for her to pack in her bindle; they were about the same size, which made it much easier – both were a little on the shorter side, with an average build, wide-set shoulders, and thick, toned legs. Some looser fitting clothes would compensate for swell of her belly..

Hawke was farther along than Leandra had thought, she realized, as she slipped into the nightgown. Her baggy tunic and traveling cloak had concealed this well.

Leandra found that Hawke didn’t carry much in her bindle, besides some sovereigns and silver, some tonics, and a few trinkets. When she had first undone the ties in the fabric, Leandra saw that the stick was, in fact, an ornate staff, carved from dark wood – three serpents’ heads – almost dragon-like – sprung from the top, their bodies entwining, winding down the center of the staff. Hawke explained that she had taken it from the First Enchanter of the Circle in Kirkwall. Leandra told her that it was magnificent.

They saw no issue with sharing the bed – they would leave before the break of dawn, anyway, and they were no strangers to sharing tents with friends. The bed was sufficiently opulent, much larger than Leandra had ever thought was appropriate, but she was thankful for that now. Hawke fell asleep shortly, but Leandra never quite managed to drift off – she was afraid of what she would find in sleep.

Hawke took to talking in her sleep for a time. It was mostly incoherent whispers at first, but turned, slowly, to pleading. She bargained in her sleep – with Sebastian – Prince of Starkhaven, Leandra noted – and with First Enchanter Orsino. She had read the reports of the incident in Kirkwall – news what that the First Enchanter was dead, struck down by Hawke after giving in to blood magic. At least, thus was the report from Guard Captain Aveline Vallen. Still, she called to him, pleaded with him, muttered, and fell silent again.

She wondered if they had been friends. She wondered if she had tried to convince him not to do it. She wondered if he haunted her sleep like Alistair haunted her own. But, she knew, it was not always possible to save everyone. Perhaps Hawke understood this better than her. Hawke’s mistakes had caused her to lose those closest to her, while Leandra’s mistakes lead to the death of countless, but faceless victims. And Alistair.

She laid there, contemplating, for longer than she knew, until grey light began to fill the room. She rose to wake up Hawke, and they got dressed in relative silence.

“I’ll visit the market this morning,” Leandra said, breaking the silence as they crossed the treeline beyond the Keep. “You’ll need a few essentials, I suppose. Some fresh blankets, for the old bed, perhaps… some food, of course…”

“We could make a list,” Hawke suggested, “once I take stock of the place.”

They were silent for another while before Hawke finally voiced the question that had been itching at the back of her mind for quite some time. “My brother, Carver – I’m not sure if you knew, but he died of the Taint, down in the Deep Roads. I don’t suppose -“

Leandra knew that she was bound to ask. “The Darkspawn came to the surface from a chasm – it was near here, but the cave is just an old silver mine. There aren’t any… You won’t find any Darkspawn in there, nor should you find any traces of the Taint, besides…” She thought about it for a moment, “Well, don’t touch any of the old lab equipment, just to be safe.” While the answer didn’t seem to do much to put Hawke at ease, Leandra put an arm around her shoulder and gave a quick squeeze.

And they continued on like that, her arm around her, sides pressed tightly together, the warmth a friendly reminder that they no longer had to be alone in this world. It felt effortless and familiar. It was a comforting, grounding feeling that neither of them had had the pleasure to know in many months, and, for that, they were grateful.

 

By the time they had reached the old silver mines, the birds had begun to chirp and the cicadas were singing their high-pitched tone all around them. The sun was filtering in through the canopy of leaves and the clearing near the entrance was glowing in the early morning light. Despite the pretty scene before them, Hawke began to feel uneasy as old memories of Darkspawn and the Deep Roads filled her mind. She tried holding on to Leandra just a bit tighter; it seemed to do the trick.

She stopped suddenly, and Leandra gave her a questioning look. Hawke smiled and reached for Leandra’s hand. “The baby is kicking. Would you like to feel her?”

“Her?” Leandra asked, amused, but nodded all the same. Hawke moved her hand to her abdomen. It was strange sensation, the kicking.

“I’m certain it’s a she. I hoped so, anyway,” she explained.

“Well, she’d certainly have her pick of female role models,” she said with a smile.  “Any ideas on names?”

Her attempt at conversation was not unwelcome. Hawke had spent a long time on the road, alone – she had begun to forget, already, that she had someone to talk to again. “Bethany, after my sister,” she said.

“And if she _isn’t_ a she?”

“Carver, after my brother.” She was quiet for a moment. “He was named after the Templar who helped my father escape the Circle, to flee Kirkwall with my mother. There was a Templar who did the same for us,” she said, and paused, unsure of how much she should say. “Some of what you’ll hear, or have heard, isn’t entirely true, and that’s mostly due to his cooperation. My friend, Varric, plans to release an account of our adventures to corroborate his more… _falsified_ reports of the incident. Anyway… I thought I could afford him the middle name of my child.”

“How _falsified_ are the reports? I mean, the Knight-Commander reportedly turned into a statue –“

“Red lyrium, yes. That part is definitely true.”

“ _Red_ lyrium?”

“Yes, well…” She stopped and turned to face her. “We found this… idol… in a Thaig. It was made of lyrium, but it was red. Turns out, it does some scary shit – moves things around, all poltergeist-y… and it _sings._ It drove Varric’s brother insane.”

“It… sounds like it has the Blight. But… then the lyrium would have to be alive – or something like that.” She shook her head. “No, that’s absurd.”

“Exactly. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about – I doubt we’ll see much more of it any time soon.” Hawke slid an arm around her shoulder and they continued on their way.

“See – you’re trying to distract me from the issue at hand,” Leandra said.

“Which would be…?”

“Don’t be coy.” Leandra sighed. “You managed to convince a Templar to falsify his reports.”

“Yes.”

“To what degree?”

“Some deaths may have been exaggerated. Some people may have left the city unseen, thanks in part to his help.”

“…such as..?”

Hawke sighed. “See, the whole point was so that people wouldn’t know. By not telling you, I am protecting them as well as yourself. Trust me.”

Leandra’s shoulders slumped in defeat. Hawke showed no signs of annoyance, but she was firm. “So… this Templar helped you and your mysterious lover escape the city, he agreed to _lie_ for you… and all you can afford him is a middle name? How terribly stingy of you.”

“Well, you have to admit, Cullen Hawke sounds dreadful.”

Suddenly, she felt heat rush to her face. “Cullen?”

“Yes.”

“Cullen Rutherford?”

“…yes.” Hawke looked at her, confusion apparent on her face. “Why are you pink?”

“I am not _pink_ ,” she squeaked, her voice raising an octave.

“You are _bright_ pink.”

She cleared her throat. “I knew him.”

Hawke grinned. “You _liked_ him,” she teased. “Did he always make you blush like that?”

“…yes.” A sharp laugh escaped from Hawke’s lips and she turned to face her, fury in her eyes. “I’ve killed dragons, you know.”

“And yet the thought of Cullen Rutherford turns you to pudding.”  


	2. Justice Is Served

**Chapter I – Justice Is Served**

**9:38 Dragon**

Hawke had only just managed to put the baby to sleep and took her seat by the fireplace to read the letter Varric had brought with him, a watery glaze to her eyes, shining and brilliant in the light, only half paying attention to the story she had walked in on. Leandra was talking, laughing – the most animated Hawke had ever seen her cousin – her legs crossed under her in the seat of her armchair, an old journal in her lap and a cup of some variety of herbal tea in one hand, her free hand gesticulating wildly to emphasis the chaos of the situation she was describing.

It was nice – Leandra’s visit were so seldom, it was hard to get away and, when she did, the time they shared was brief and often only made her too anxious to relax – and she hadn’t seen Varric for so long – having the three of them together felt strangely natural and altogether pleasant. Varric’s visit had been a subject of great excitement since Leandra had found this place; she had been lucky to secure it for her cousin at such a price – it had laid abandoned in the outskirts of town after the incident with the Mother, though it was in quite fine shape despite what few repairs it still needed, and Hawke was putting what homesteading skills she’d learned from her parents in her youth – making her own curtains and blankets to pad the windows and doors to keep out the chill, basic maintenance and repairs – she even had her own little spice garden in her kitchen, with onions potted in the pantry awaiting the spring.

“- and so I, the famously stern and quiet Commander of the Grey, am now covered from head to toe in pudding and potatoes. Of course – the  _ one  _ day I decide to come to the mess, right?” She and Varric laughed. “Total silence falls for a moment, and then…  _ reeeeeeeeeeeeeek _ ! A chair, scraping across the floor. And, Ogrhen –  _ Maker –  _ he  _ climbs up  _ on the chair, in full view of everyone, so trashed he wobbles and I think, for a moment, he might fall off, sprinkles a pinch of salt over me and lays a spot of leafy, green garnish atop my head!”

Varric laughed, a rumbling deep in his chest, clutching his belly for a moment and asked, near-breathless, “And Blondie?”

“And Anders, who launched the first spoonful, emerges from the door to the larder, _completely_ _spotless_ , looks me over, and says, ‘Did I do that?’” She and Varric erupted with laughter again, doing their best to stifle it with the sleeping baby in mind, but Varric was wheezing, now, with tears in his eyes.  “And I swear –“ Leandra paused to regain some of her composure – speaking through the laughter made the words come out a little louder than she intended. “I swear, even _Justice_ cracked a smile that day.” Her smile lost a bit of its light, a new sadness clouding her eyes. It had been a while since she’d spared the spirit any thought. “Justice moved on shortly after that, so it’s nice memory.”

Varric’s demeanor shifted a bit and he adjusted his position in his seat, leaning forward; he seemed to sober up in a moment. He noticed the smile on Hawke’s face fade. He cleared his throat. “Justice?”

Feeling the sudden tension, Leandra tilted her head, confused. “Yeah, um, did Anders never mention them?”

“Sort of,” Hawke said, a hint of laughter in her voice. The way she and Varric exchanged a look seemed to allude to some sort of private joke, though Varric did not seem to be as amused as Hawke.

“Then maybe it will sound funny to you – that I was sad to see Justice go. We were friends though,” she said, then shook her head as she added, “as much as you can be friends with a cryptic and aloof spirit, I mean. They were a calm and gentle presence in my life. I relished the company.” Her sad smile returned as she looked down at the contents of her mug. She took a sip of the tea, relishing in the warmth of it amidst the chilly air of the drafty old house. “When the body Justice inhabited turned up empty, I just hoped they’d finally returned to the fade after being trapped here for so long.”

Again, Varric and Hawke exchange a look. “Does she not -?”

Hawke quickly cut him off. “I guess we’ve never really talked about it.” She frowned, thinking, then turned back to her cousin. “When was the last time you saw or spoke with Anders?”

Leandra pondered the question. “Mm, I suppose… We were supposed to give a lecture together on the Architect – he called himself the foremost authority, lying tit, I would argue that’s me... Something came up… I can’t recall, but it required my attention, and Anders left without me. He never made it to the lecture.” Something about the thought of his escape brought back the memory of their first meeting. She smiled to remember the cheerful Anders she once knew. “It was just after Justice took the leave they would never return from, so I was particularly cross Anders never wrote.” She said it in jest, but it had been a rough time for her.

“Perhaps we should send for him,” Hawke suggested.

Varric nodded, understanding what she meant. This was a conversation best left to the old friends.

 

**9:41 Dragon**

Ashes – ashes laid at her feet, scattered across the floor. A breeze blew in through the window, picking them up, swirling them around. Leandra sniffed, picking through her small collection of tattered correspondence. The ash blew through the air – drifted into her barrier, entwining with the twisting strands of frost, engaged in a complex dance of tug and pull and twirl, like children playing tag. The ash had followed them through from Lothering, where they had parted ways with Hawke earlier that day – it would not leave her be.

In a sense – not literally. They were different ashes – Carver had recently figured out how to set things on fire, something he was fond of doing. It was an easy way to keep himself entertained, to keep himself from thinking about how much he missed his mother. It was an easy way to act out and express his anger and confusion.  Leandra couldn’t complain, of course, because he seemed all the happier for the outlet. Her companion, who sat on the bed opposite hers, however, was not so pleased.

With a flick of his wrist, Anders cast the ashes out the window with some careful blasts of frost and watched them disappear out into the inky night. Magic sparked as he poked at her barrier until it was pure once more, snowflakes catching the flame of the candle at her bedside, casting flickers of white light across the room. And he wondered, then, if she even knew that she did that – subconsciously put a wall between her and the world as she lost herself in thought, chilling the air around her. He shivered.

He wondered, too, if Hawke had really sent him to lead the way, or to look after them – an angry child and a terrified woman, both the most obvious mages he’d ever seen, who didn’t shy away from using elemental magic to warm their cold tea, or cool down their soup; especially Leandra, who’d grown so accustomed, and yet so tired, of being short of stature and of reach, that she would use force magic to knock something into her grasp. Naturally, the most obvious person in the world was having a bit of trouble fading into the background.

It was good to see her again, he had to admit. It was good to see her laughing.

Hawke never used to be half so obvious about it; he wondered if Leandra’s casual attitude on the matter had made her more careless. Carver was far too young to be showing any signs of it, even if it was nothing more than the gusts of warm and cold air and, now, a flame the size of a matchhead with the snap of his fingers – no, he couldn’t even snap his fingers yet, and he still had trouble climbing stairs. Leandra once told him she’d been taken to the circle at a very young age, and he wondered how old Hawke was before she started terrorizing her parents with her magic. Then, he wondered, if they’d been encouraging Carver, teaching him, thinking they could get a handle on this sooner rather than later.

Anders stopped his pondering with a shake of his head, turning back to his companion. “If it’s the interaction you crave, I’m right here.”

Leandra almost jumped, sitting up straight in her bed, looking up at him for the first time in a while. “Hmm? Oh – no – sorry,” she mumbled. “I’ve just –“ The raven, which sat perched in the window, cawed at her. She waved her hand at it, and it jumped out into the night sky. “I’ve been getting reports on the Inquisition’s progress from… an old friend. Something about someone sounded familiar. It reminded me of a thing. I was looking for the thing.”

“Well, that’s  _ very _ helpful. Thank you for clarifying.”

She stopped rifling and set her collection down next to her in the bed. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this Coryphe-fellow? I mean, I understand why Hawke wouldn’t – but you  _ knew _ about –“

“Your obsession with the Architect?” He settled in against his pile of pillows, ignoring her cry of protest.  _ Because I wasn’t about to tell the queen of diplomacy that we shot first and asked later.  _ “Because we killed it. It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“As the  _ foremost authority  _ on the Architect,” she began, and he cut her off right there.

He rolled his eyes at the mention of his authority on the matter. “Are you still on about that? Bitter girl.” He knew now that she finally had the chance, she would wear this whole thing into the ground – alone, for the first time, with Hawke gone and Carver asleep.

“ _ As I was saying, _ you should have realized the implications - that there were others like him – or maybe not like him – or maybe  _ he _ wasn’t what we thought at all – maybe he’s whatever Coryphepissed is…” She paused to ponder her own lack of sense before punctuating her ramblings with a, “...that’s a revelation and half.”

“Maker,  _ slow down. _ ”

“Anyway, you only  _ thought  _ you killed him – in this case, that’s an important distinction. To think, when my  _ blood _ started to  _ sing _ you told me it was nothing to worry about. ‘ _ Don’t let it sing to you.’ _ That’s what you told me.” There was humour in her voice, though he suspected this was going to become a bit of a sore spot for her. “Did  _ he _ ever say anything about… others?”

She was referring to his recent visit paid to the Architect. He had recently sought him out at her behest – why, he did not know – based on years worth of sightings and rumours – any lead she could get her hands on. He shook his head. “We didn’t exactly sit down for tea. I delivered your message,  _ it  _ composed a response, I got out of there. It wouldn’t have heard the song, anyway – it couldn’t have known. And it wouldn’t have left that map behind if it didn’t want to be found, and if it wanted to be found, it must be willing to work together, right?”

He was referring to the map of the old Thaigs covered in markings she had found among the Architect’s notes. By cross referencing the marked Thaigs with sightings – that was where Anders found it. The Architect had admitted, in its response, to leaving it for her to find – because it was curious about  _ her _ .  _ She _ interested the  _ Architect _ . Regardless, she had gotten the invitation she wanted – a summons she would answer as soon as Carver was taken to where Hawke wanted him to be. She, of course, had not divulged this information, of course, or he never would have agreed to let her continue from their destination alone.

Much of her operations in the past couple years had remained highly secretive, with good reason. Hawke didn’t know what sort of errand she had sent Anders on, and neither she nor even Anders knew much about where Leandra herself was going or for what – what she sought. That had all been by design. If Hawke knew she had sent Anders to find the Architect, she would be very cross, and if Anders knew she planned to pay the Architect a visit without him rather than investigating whatever old ruin she’d used as an excuse earlier, he would be very cross too.

If Hawke had her way – if she didn’t have Carver to worry about – she would have take the two Wardens far away from Ferelden and Orlais and the false calling. But, simply put, she wasn’t sure if the child could survive a journey any longer than the one they were already undertaking.

She tilted her chin downward and looked up at him through her lashes. “Did the Architect say anything at all?”

“It said some sort of greeting, I think, and told me it remembered me,” he said, biting back a cheeky grin when she let out an exasperated sigh. She really did something to bring out his old, terrible sense of humour. Hawke would suspicious of such a change in character – to Leandra, he was just being Anders. “It expressed some surprise that we ever bothered to track it down, considering how long it took for us to get around to it. I told it that you and I were out of contact for a while and – when we finally got back in touch – you had been waiting to ask this favour of me. It seemed… disappointed, perhaps, that you didn’t come yourself, though I’m not sure that’s quite word I’m looking for.”

“And?”

“I assured the poor thing that it had nothing to worry about, as you are positively obsessed with it.” He felt a breeze blow through him, chilling him to his core. His blood felt sluggish – he knew that frost was running through his veins. “Kidding!” he cried, and he felt warmth spread through him again. “Then, I handed over your letter. It read it, composed a response, silent all the while, then handed the response to me, told me to bring it straight to you – it was strictly  _ for you _ . And I left. It was a terrible host – didn’t offer me anything to drink,” he said, recalling his visits to Merrill’s house, a smile ghosting his lips. “But you do realize that you’re obsessed, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “You do realize that he could be the key to  _ everything _ – all of my questions, validating my research. He could be one of the Magisters who breached the Golden City – Maker! If Corephypissed is all  _ he  _ claims to be, it’s not  _ too _ crazy. The Blight, how to reverse it, to stop the calling – he’s my best shot. He may have been one of the men who started it all,”

“Oh, is that all you’re after, then?” he teased. “You know, the same could be said of Corypheus – maybe  _ he’s _ your key – maybe he  _ is _ an associate of the Architect – and your  _ contact _ says he seeks to ascend to godhood. What does that say about your Darkspawn pal?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her. “The Architect may not be as docile as you think it is.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she conceded, remembering something of Grand Enchanter Fiona’s retelling of the Architect’s fight with the Wardens Genevieve and Bregan. “ _ Or _ maybe he just… I mean, imagine if we took Carver, as he is now, and left him in a cave to fend for himself for a thousand years.”

“Hawke would kill us.”

“Hawke would kill us – but, aside from that, imagine how his development would progress from there –  _ how _ would he develop? He’s essentially a clean slate as he is – could he develop his own morality, or a sense of propriety that would resemble our own without guidance from us – from community, from family? The Architect awoke one day as a clean slate –“

“Like a child. You’re comparing an ancient Darkspawn to a child?”

“Just  _ try _ to humour me, here, Anders. What if he  _ was _ a Magister? I mean, even today those guys are dicks. He probably doesn’t know any better, if he even remembers anything of his life  _ before. _ “

“That makes it okay to kidnap people and drain their blood?” He laughed, and Leandra slumped her shoulders in defeat. “You are such a fixer,” he said teasingly. “First, you stop a civil war and fix Ferelden, then you stop the Blight to fix the continent, then you fix Amaranthine, and fix me along the way…”

“I didn’t mean to make you  _ so  _ serious,” Leandra said. “I’m in the process of fixing you again, believe you me.”

Anders furrowed his brow. “Justice might have something to say about that,” he said, and the air around them stilled. He shivered. “And now it’s angry – I can feel it.” His sudden seriousness cause Leandra to shudder.

She turned away from him, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and looking out the window. “Maybe the Architect has a solution for that, too,” she said. A gust of wind blew the window shut, tousling her hair and shaking it free from its holdings until it fell in long waves down her shoulders and back.

“ _ No. _ ” The syllable resounded angrily, his voice echoing and… wrong.

When she turned around to face him against, his eyes were glowing, magic emanating off of him in waves. She smiled sadly. “Hello, Justice,” she said softly. She crossed the room, coming to stand next to where Anders sat on the bed. “Long time no see.”

“Warden-Commander,” it said with a nod. “You say that, and yet I have been here the whole time.”

She sat down on the bed, keeping one foot planted firmly on the floor. She knew the spirit could turn volatile; it was best to have a plan of escape. “Oh, Justice,” she said, voice wavering. She took Anders face in her hands. She continued in little more than a whisper, “What have you done?”

For a brief moment, it did not answer. “Anders’ anger has made us stronger.”

She shook her head. “It has corrupted you. You came into this world unwillingly, and, still, you let it shape you.” She sighed. “And you have shaped the world.”

“Is that not the human way, Warden-Commander?” it asked in sincerity.

Tears pricked at her eyes. She ran her thumbs over Anders’ cheeks. There were tears there, too. She wondered if it was Justice who made them. She leaned forward and leaned her forehead against his. “Sweet Justice, I am sorry for what the world has made you.”

“You are too sentimental.”

“Perhaps.” She closed her eyes. “But if you are willing to consider it, I would offer myself to you, if you would leave him – if it’s possible.”

“You have been waiting to ask this of me,” it said decidedly.

It was true – she had been waiting for Justice to get angry enough to take control. It would not have conversed so easily with her, otherwise. She realized that Justice knew this – Justice knew all along what it was that she meant to ask. Perhaps it sensed her feelings on the matter before even she could make sense of them. “I have, yes, since Anders met up with us.”

“You are a  _ fixer _ .”

The light in Anders’ eyes flickered out, and Leandra pulled back, wiping the tears from her eyes.

Anders regarded her curiously. “Whatever you said – Justice isn’t angry anymore.”

She ignored him. “It’s late, I should return to Carver.”

 

Carver was precisely where she left him – a tiny form in a large bed. She set her correspondence, one of the few things she’d taken with her, on the dresser opposite the bed.  She slipped out of her dress, folded it and set it aside. Now in only her simple slip and stockings – she didn’t go anywhere without them anymore, something she told others was because of the cold – she climbed into bed and turned onto her side, looking out the window at the trees, their branches swaying in the wind.

She wondered where Hawke was, how far along on her pilgrimage she was. Hawke had been decidedly nervous about the journey – both theirs and her own. Their dealings with Stroud thus far had left her with a sense of foreboding, and Varric’s reports did little to quell it. Something about the finality of their goodbye, and the fact that she was sending Carver away, supposedly to a place where he would be taken care of… Leandra couldn’t help but wonder if Hawke thought she might not return. 

Wherever she was, she hoped she was warm.

 

Justice found her in the Fade, wandering along the bank of a river. It took the form of Kristoff, and she wondered if it was because it was more familiar to Justice or too herself – if that was just how she chose to see the spirit or how it chose to present itself – but she was glad to see Justice as she used to know it, rather than the spirit of Vengeance it had become. She took its arm and they fell into an easy pace.

“You always did have a soft spot for monsters, Warden-Commander,” Justice said, sensing her feelings of comfort and companionship as she gripped the fluid form of its arm.

“Come now, old friend,” she chided, “you’re no monster.”

“Do you not consider me a corrupted spirit, now? Vengeance, not Justice – that is what you thought when I found you here,” it said. This was not untrue, she thought, and guilt panged her. Still, it could the affection she felt for it. Judgement clouded by nostalgia, Justice thought. “But you seek to mend this discord between myself and my nature by hosting me – why?”

Leandra had not considered that – it was a need to mend the spirit, pun aside, of two old friends. Anders was angry, but she was not. She had her failings, certainly, and she was not sure what sort of affect that could have on the spirit, but docile feelings, such as melancholy, could not possible have such a violent effect as anger. She hoped her compassionate, nurturing nature could have an almost healing effect. Either way, Anders would be free to bury the anger that was tearing him apart.

She was about to open her mouth and explain when Justice nodded and said, “I see.”

“Still, I do not know if such a thing is possible, to leave your host. I mean, you left Kristoff’s body – brought it to his wife so that she may finally lay him to rest.” But that had been a corpse, nothing more than an empty vessel.

“You exercised a demon once – cut the connection. How did you do it?”

“C-Connor?” she asked, surprised. “Well… I confronted the demon in the Fade…” But the demon had not wanted to leave, and they fought.

But Justice had know that as soon as she thought it; the point had been made. “Most spirits are driven mad by the world of the living, even when it is they who sought it out,” it said evenly. “I was brought to your world, not by choice, and yet I made the best of a bad situation. I did not allow the world to be deprived of a good man – I continued to fight for him, I used his body, so that his death might not be in vain. He was an empty shell – I stood no chance of losing myself. But with Anders… I became a part of him. I became his anger. I am tired of being Anders, and I am tired of being angry.

“Every fiber of my existence has has been ablaze since I joined with Anders, burning; your kindness has been a soothing balm. You managed to calm me, to still my rage, long enough for you to remind me of what I once was – to you, a friend, and to the world, Justice. Now, I do not know how to return to the Fade; I find it only in Anders’ slumber.”

“But, until we find a way, we can give him a bit of peace,” Leandra said, having a good sense of where Justice was headed with the sentiment, and she was not wrong. “You are welcome to have me, or we could find you a body again, though people might find it a bit discerning to find a woman traveling with a corpse at her side.”

“That is true.”

“…and without a living host, your nature would remain the same – twisting, corrupting, slowly.”

“That is also true.” Justice stopped and let go of her arm. It turned to face her. “I would be vengeful. I would be Vengeance.”

“I am not angry,” she said.

“No, you have never been angry – not in the time that I have known you,” it said, almost sadly. “You are compassionate and kind, but you are also afraid. I do not know what that will do to my nature.”

“Neither do I,” she admitted.

“There is only one way to find out,” it said slowly. Justice took her face in its hands, as she had done to Anders – it understood that it was meant to be a comforting gesture. It leaned down, touching its forehead to hers and she reached up to place her hands over Justice’s. She knew it would never ask this of her – she was offering it herself.

 

“What have you done?!”

Anders was kneeling on the bed next to her, shaking her awake almost violently. Carver clamoured out of bed, crying out in surprise, running to hide in the corner farthest from him.. Leandra’s eyes flickered open and, confused, she grabbed his hands to stop his shaking, but he would not stop. “Maker, what have you done?!”

Her eyes rolled back into her head and blue flames erupted from her sockets, a rush of force magic shoving him away from her and onto the floor with a crash as her barrier flared up in a whirlwind of frost and magical blue flame and she sprung from the bed, her feet landing firmly on the floor on either side of his hips. Anders looked up at her, propping himself up onto his elbows, and she spoke, her soft, feminine voice echoing with Justice’s deep drawl,

_ “She has freed us both,”  _ it said, and vanished faster than it had appeared.

Leandra fell back onto the bed, her hands clasping the edge to keep her upright, and she look at him with sorrow in her eyes, pleading with him. “I had to,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“Maker, look at him!” Anders cried, pointing to where Carver trembled under the covers. “You’ve terrified him.

“Carver, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” she mumbled, but he did not budge. She met Ander’s eyes again, tears beginning to roll down her pale cheeks. “Please, take him downstairs for breakfast. I need… I need some time.”

“ _ You _ need some time?” Anders was furious but, for once, Vengeance wasn’t going to rear its head.

 

_ Tell Varric that Justice rides with me now _ .  _ -LA _

That was all she could manage in her reply to Leliana. Varric would understand what it meant – he could tell Hawke, so she wouldn’t be blindsided by it later. She had sent it before she could have the time to regret it, watching the raven fly off in the light of the sunrise. She sat in the windowsill, breathing in the fresh air, watching the trees sway in the wind, wondering what Leliana would think – would she understand? What would Varric think? Only one thing was certain.

_ Hawke is going to kill me _ , she thought.

_ Hawke is going to kill us, _ Justice reminded her gently. It was the first time it had spoken to her, and it made her flinch. It came to her like a thought that she didn’t have to think – a distinct voice, low and echoing in the back of her mind. 

_ Well, this is awkward,  _ she thought.

_ Why? Because I can feel your regret at having offered yourself to me, or because I can see your every thought and memory?  _ Justice asked.

_ Both? _

_ Ah _ . With that, Justice went silent. She wondered if that was something Justice did often, or if it was because it was just getting settled in, letting her know it was there, what it could do. Carver had already seen what it could do – she remembered the terror in his face, bright, green eyes shimmering with tears.

_ Pain does not mean that you are doing the wrong thing,  _ Justice reminded her as the guilt began to set in.  _ The most righteous path is often the path fraught with the most resistance. You continue to do what you know in your heart is right, even when it hurts, and that is extraordinary. _ It was telling her exactly what she needed to hear. Perhaps her compassion was beginning to affect Justice already.

 

Anders found it difficult to sit with Carver as he ate. His mind was still racing, his heart still pounding. He was restless, irritated. His hands trembled. He rose from his seat shortly, assuring the child he would return shortly, leaving Carver to his meal, and headed outside. He had no idea where he was going or why – he just kept marching, increasing his pace gradually until he was sprinting through the forest. For once, it was quiet. Justice wasn’t there. His blood boiled, his skin itched.

_ She  _ had taken his Vengeance from him.

Questions prodded him from every angle, like sharp pains in his head – Why? How? Was it possible for a spirit to just switch hosts like that? Why would she want it in her head, clouding her thoughts, probing her feelings, like it had done to him for years? Did she do it for him? Did she do it for Justice? Was this all part of her great plan? Who did she think she was?

She always did have a soft spot for monsters.

He slowed to a halt, reaching into the depths of himself, to the budding well of power and anger, overflowing, and unleashed it all – a blazing firestorm and a primal scream, like a caged and frustrated beast, and balls of fire tore through the path before him, wrapping him up in a searing heat, inside and out, consuming the trees and bush and lifting up in a great pillar of smoke, singing his robes and covering him in ash and sweat and filling his lungs with heavy air as he gasped, furious panting, and he snuffed out the blaze faster than he had started it, shoving it down with force magic, suffocating the flame, and the trail of smoke disappeared into the sky above him as he sunk to his knees, exhausted and spent, panting.

Was it such a bad thing?

Justice had served its purpose, and the mages, once prisoners of the Circle, were now free agents of the Inquisition. Did he still need it? It tapped into his anger, corrupting itself, corrupting him – it had been doing so for years. What good was Justice doing him? What good was he doing Justice? Leandra had a reason; he would have to ask her what it was.

He let out a long, shaky breath, clenching his fists – but it did nothing to quell the trembling. He trembled, on his knees, afraid and, for the first time in a very long time, completely alone.

 

Leandra watched the smoke rising in the distance for a moment before, with a sigh, she stood and went to her bag. She pulled out her collection of correspondence and thumbed through it, searching for her most recent distraction of choice – a long piece of dirtied vellum, already beginning to show signs of wear, with tears along the sides and a dog-eared corner. 

_ Obsessed _ .

The word stuck her like a needle and she attempted to shake it off. She had always been a bit overbearing, naturally and inescapably obsessive, because she was carefully contemplative and her reflection often led her to rethink, reprocess, reassess. She was prudent. She was calculative. She was a passionate person and that lead her to be passionate about a great many things –  about most things, really. Thoughts crept in, clawing, peeling away her sensibilities, always piquing a new interest. She was obsessed with a lot of things, it was her version of normal. Obsession was comfortable state.

She had spent years slaving over the Architect’s discarded journals and research – the things it had deemed too insignificant to bother to take with it when it fled. Having extracted all she possibly could from them, she had been in agony for too long. She re-read everything, started mapping it all, keeping a timeline, collecting accounts of sightings, everything she could to keep it alive –  _ it _ being a feeling, something like adrenaline, a rush of excitement. When she managed to get in touch with the Grand Enchanter, and Fiona sent her a full report of her dealings with the Architect – it was the crushing weight that had been building, atop her shoulders and chest, was lifted and she could breathe again.

There was something in this creature – in mad notes, furiously scribbled, careful research and experimentation, philosophical rumination, and insane ranting – that she could relate to and understand. And that was something she’d always had trouble with – relating to people – with the few exceptions. Hawke, Anders, Alistair… they all helped to keep her humour alive, but the connection had gone deeper – they understood her in some ways, but not so well in others. Naturally, she had latched onto this intangible idea of the Architect, learning how to explore the Fade in sleep, to watch it work, to – 

_ Yeah, alright, rationality is not my strong suit,  _ she admitted, but Justice was silent.

Exploring the fade like that was not something she thought possible – to go to sleep and find the spirits of time passed. It was not something they had ever talked about at the circle. It was just another subject of interest to the Architect – something she learned from those many notes. She had always been gifted. Still, it felt impossible, and yet she had done it.

Like everything else – like this obsession – it had started small, slowly, and like a snowball rolling down a hill, it garnered size and intensity exponentially. It had started so plainly, reviewing some notes the Architect had scribbled in an old journal when she came to a new date.  _ I have had another vision, and _ she _ is fascinating. _ That was how the entry began, and it amused her – enough for a smile to ghost her lips, and, just like that, her interest was piqued.

The Architect had been watching her from the time she arrived in Amaranthine – it had expected her arrival before she had even gotten the assignment – and while she knew it should unnerve her, it did not. In fact, she found it almost flattering that the creature took notes on her in the same great detail it did everything else. The subtle details it noticed, pondering the answers to inquiries about her, her habits, that no one had bothered to note – everything from  _ “She sings soft hymns to herself when she walks alone. Does she do it for the love of the tune, or to still the tremor in her hands? Is she afraid? _ ” to  _ “Does she know that she pouts like a fish when she appears to be in concentration?” _ which she refused to admit – it made her chest tight and her heart ached in longing for someone to notice her again – like Cullen used to. The mere thought excited her.

He had noticed her, and the little kindnesses she would afford even strangers – small deeds, direct and indirect, to make someone smile, or rid someone of the homesickness, in the ranks of both the apprentices and the Templars. It was something she could do, something to break through the years of endless monotony and loneliness, because she’d never had friends, save Jowan. 

_ Am I really so desperate for attention? _

It was like standing in a glass cage, looking out, watching the people around her. Some would stop for a while and chat, but they saw only the glass, and not the person inside of it. She was on the inside, crying out, and nobody could hear her, and it made her body itch and her heart ache and everything and everyone felt miles away.

_ Now you know how I feel _ , Justice quipped, and it made her smile for a brief second. It was enough to snap her out of the prison of her own thoughts, and she turned her attention back to the vellum in her hand. She traced the signature with her fingers.  _ The Architect. _

_ Warden-Commander, _

_ You say you’ve left the Wardens, but I am afraid I do not know how else to address you. Perhaps ‘The Hero of Ferelden’ – is that not what they call you? The Champion of Redcliffe, the Arlessa of Amaranthine… so many titles; of what use can they and the power they promise possibly be if you’ve come seeking my help? _

_ And you send an abomination in your stead. I must say, I am disappointed. _

_ You hear the song, that is curious. Doubly so, because below ground, while they usually do not disturb me, the Darkspawn are growing restless in their task  _ –  _ their digging has ceased. Needless to say, I have begun looking into it. If whoever tore open the veil, as you described, also commands the Blight, then our existence and world as we know them are threatened; though, to your credit, I suppose that is just another day in the life. _

Curiously complementary, and it made her smile, and she fell backward onto the bed, her long hair falling in waves on the pillow, like thick veins of red lyrium, winding down like small streams into a great, wavy pool of red that framed her pale skin.  _ She thrashes about in her sleep, treading water the hair that pools around her like thick, tainted blood, _ the Architect had written once, during its experiments, when it had taken her and her companions captive.

The birds were singing their song in reminder that they were meant to set out soon. Whereto, only Anders knew the specifics. She wondered if Justice would tell her if she asked, but it didn’t matter. She knew they were bound for Starkhaven, at least.  _ Head North, hire a ship to Kirkwall. _ She knew that Hawke had been friends with Prince Sebastian, so that was her best bet. Then, she’d leave them, and travel on, which reminded her…

She turned onto her side and returned her attention to the careful lettering and wondered, for the umpteenth time, if it was real – if any of this had ever been real; these years of quiet suffering, maddening late nights, all culminating in this brief address – an invitation. It made her lungs feel weak and her mouth dry.

_ I offer my assistance to you. In exchange, I ask for nothing but your own assistance for however long you are willing to lend it. You know where to find me. _

She rolled onto her back and gazed up at the ceiling, letting out a shaky breath.

_ Soon,  _ she thought.

She jerked upward, off the bed, at the sound of the door opening, and saw Anders standing there, chest heaving, fire in his eyes. His tone did not match his words when he said, “Lord Carver is taking tea with his teddy in my room.”

She bit the inside of her cheek.  “You’re mad,” she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

“Of course I am,” he said. There was less of an edge to his voice now than before, though she had to wonder if he was only keeping his voice down so Carver didn’t overhear. He stepped in and closed the door. “I woke up to find a piece of me was gone.”

“It was never  _ you _ , Anders. You were corrupting Justice with your anger, and, in turn, they corrupted their host. What you did in Kirkwall – my  _ friend _ Anders would never have done that.”

“We became what we had to,” he said. He turned away and strode across the room to sit on the windowsill, gazing out across the trees.

“And you’ve done what you had to, it’s out of your hands, and it’s time to let yourself heal. It’s time to give Justice a rest, and let Justice return to where they belongs.”

“So you’re, what? – now that it’s possessing you, going to exercise it?” he spat.

She got up and walked over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I haven’t quite gotten it all figured out, yet, but Justice is on board. They came willingly, after all.”

“She has freed us both…” he said quietly, turning his gaze back to her. “That’s what Justice said when it took over. I mean it…” He paused. The anger in his eyes turned to something more vulnerable, his face sullen, expression grave. “Is that what it looked like when I… when Justice took control?” She looked at him, tears welling in her eyes, lips quivering. “I suppose you wouldn’t have an answer. You couldn’t see what it did to you, but…  _ Maker _ . It’s like…”

“A big scary wave of blue fire and death?”

“A big,  _ powerful,  _ scary wave of blue fire and death,” he said, very seriously, but it was enough to make her lips curve upward just slightly, and he felt a bit of the weight lift from his chest. “I’m just not sure yet… I mean, how do I move on from here, just like that?”

“You learn to let go – of Justice, and your anger.” She took her hand off his shoulder and smoothed over his hair. “Speaking of anger, Hawke is going to furious; we are  _ the  _ worst babysitters.”

“Huh.” He leaned into her hand, closing his eyes briefly. It was an old, familiar touch. “I suppose we  _ do _ just keep leaving the child unsupervised.” He opened his eyes when she withdrew her hand and saw she was looking down at him, brow cocked, a sheepish smile on her face.

 

Leandra was surprised to find that Anders had not lied, that Carver was sitting on the floor across from his teddy, and two tea cups between them. The bear was a worn old thing that Leandra had purchased from a wandering merchant shortly after Hawke’s arrival in Amaranthine, stuffed with goose feathers and made from real bearskin; it seemed a bit over the top at the time, but, from birth, the thing had always been within reach of his tiny hands, and she knew, now, it was more than worth its weight in gold.

“Carver?”

Carver turned so quickly he lost his balance and had to steady himself by pressing his tiny hand to the floor. She had startled him, and now he looked afraid to see her.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you earlier.”

The fear on his face softened into something a little more sad. “Are you a… am-... am-...” he struggled to get the word out, and finally settled on something with a few too many syllables, “ambonimination?”

“A-bo-mi-na-tion,” she corrected.

He chewed on the word, repeating it to himself a few times, slowly, as she had. When he seemed satisfied, he looked back up at her, awaiting his answer.

“I am.”

Fear flashed on his face, and for a moment she wondered if he was really, truly afraid of her now. “Will they take you away?” he asked, worry making him stumble over his words. By ‘they’, he meant the Templars, but he didn’t really understand the order enough to know what they really were, all he knew was that his mother told him that they took mages from their homes and locked them away from their families.

Leandra lowered herself onto the floor next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “No, Carver. They don’t even know, and I won’t tell if you don’t,” she said very seriously, but finished with a wink. Carver smiled half-heartedly. “You don’t have to worry about me, Carver. Both your mother and I… we can take care of ourselves. It’s our job to protect you, okay? So, no deals with demons.”

“No deals with demons,” he repeated. “But –”

“This is an exception. The  _ only _ exception. Its not a demon, it’s a spirit of Justice, and I’ve known it for a very long time.”

“But you said never.”

_ Never, ever, make a deal. _ “I know. It’s an important rule. But, Carver, here’s the thing about rules: they have to be black and white – they have to be clear – there has to be an obvious right and wrong. I know it’s hard to understand right now, but when you get older, you’ll see that it isn’t always black and white – once in a while, it’s grey, not clear, and then you’ll have to use your judgement to decide what’s right and what’s wrong.  _ When you’re older.  _ Right now, you have to leave it up to us, alright?”

After a moment of thought, he said, “It’s not fair.”

“I know,” she said. “Sometimes things aren’t very fair. But, because of who you are – who  _ we  _ are – not following the rules can mean that our family gets split up forever, or it can mean death, and those are unfairest things of all.”

 

It didn’t take more than a couple hours on the road for Leandra and Anders to get into an almost heated debate. While they were used to traveling on foot, mostly, they had decided to continue their journey by private carriage, for the sake of Carver, who was much too young to walk all the way to the nearest port town. The road from Amaranthine had been taken by carriage, too. After parting ways with Hawke, they had finished the journey to the inn on foot, the two of them taking turns carrying the child, who was not big enough to be too much of a burden, but it was getting colder, and the road North would be a much more difficult trek.

"I think you'll find what most stuffy academics fail to understand is that, while content is important, presentation matters. I mean, there's a reason we tell the fantastical folk tales of our nations' heroes to our children, but we don't sit them down to read them a history book, right?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Anders said, mouth half-full of bread. "Fantastical stories are not fact, they are fantastical." He reached for the slice in his lap, breaking off another piece, poised to shove it in his mouth. With Hawke, maybe, he was more reserved and proper, but with Leandra, he was just another recruit in the mess again.

Leandra looked at him. Her brow furrowed, but her smile did not fade. She knew she was right, and she was prepared to prove just how right she was. "The way you tell the story is what makes it interesting. The Canticle of Threnodies tells a fantastical story – of war, of creation, of mere men who breach Heaven and how the Maker himself gets  _ so  _ furious that he turns them into beasts – I mean... it's got every aspect of a fairytale, but it's more dry than month-old bread." She placed a hand on Carver's head, who lay sleeping in her lap, threading his hair through her fingers. He didn't so much as stir.

"You can't just  _ make  _ something interesting."

"But that's the point: these stories are already interesting, people just present them in an uninteresting way. I thought my example was sound."

Anders leaned his head back against the wall of the carriage and closed his eyes, head swaying with the bumps and turn of the road. "Your example was blasphemous," he sighed, a smile playing at his lips.

"Fine, alright. Chant of Light aside...  _ my _ story is interesting, in and of itself. You've heard some of my tales - they're interesting. I'm sure some dusty old Brother will put some boring spin on it."

"Well, now you're just begging the question."

The Warden grumbled something about you should never argue with an academic to herself and let out a sharp sigh. "Okay, then, Varric's Tale of the Champion. He makes wandering aimlessly through spider-infested caves sound interesting."

Anders let out a soft laugh, mindful of the sleeping child. "Sure, some of it's true. Half of it's exaggeration, and the ending is practically a complete fabrication. There was no fight with Orsino, right? I mean, obviously – we're on our way to visit him right now."

She frowned. " _ What _ ?"

Anders' laughter cut off. "What do you mean, what? Where did you  _ think _ we were going?"

"Starkhaven?"

"Thereabouts."

"To visit Prince Sebastian."

" _ No _ ." He sounded decidedly certain. "If he saw me -  _ bleh _ ! Dead! Arrow straight through the throat. And, myself aside, he and Hawke are still not exactly on speaking terms, anyway." He paused, his lips twitching. “To be fair, that’s because of me.”

"Well -" She stopped to think about the weeks leading up to their departure, laying down plans.  _ We never said Starkhaven _ . He certainly wasn't wrong. "I suppose, but... Hawke never told me that Orsino was alive."

"Ah. Maybe I shouldn’t have – well, you were going to find out pretty soon, anyway,” he said mostly to himself. “No, but of course she didn't; that was entirely the point of Varric fabricating that ridiculous final battle scene. She wanted to keep him safe. Not even  _ she _ knows where to find him." He closed his eyes again, settling in. “A lot of the part he played in our story was left out altogether at Hawke’s request… their friendship, the book club, the things that happened after her mother was…” He swallowed. “After she died.”

“What –”

“You should talk to Hawke about that,” Anders said quickly. “It’s not really my place.”

Her heart sank a bit; she wasn’t sure if the disappointment came from his refusal to answer any of her queries, or how little, it seemed, Hawke had actually trusted her with. She sat, pouting, pondering for a moment.

_ Book club _ . Her eyes lit up with excitement and she had to fight with herself not exclaim as she said, “Book club!” for fear of waking the child in her lap.  “Would you hand me my bag?”

Anders obliged, curious, and watched her dig through the contents only to pull out a worn, leather bound book. “No,” he breathed as she flipped through the book. He took the book as she passed it to him, pointing to an underlined passage. “No way.”

_ Rose buried her fingers in the magistrate’s silky hair as he greedily ate her nipples. _

His eyes went to read the notes in the margin.

_ Easy pal, she needs those, _ was written in blue ink, in Varric’s scrawl.

_ Make sure everyone’s been served, then you can have seconds.  _ He recognized that as Orsino’s practiced lettering; someone, who he assumed to be Hawk, because he had seen her scribble the same thing in the margins of much of their correspondence, had drawn something lewd below the commentary.

He stared at it, bewildered. “How did you get your hands on one of Varric’s Terrible Dirty Book Club books? Hawke kept these under lock and key – guarded them like a hound.”

Her heart warmed to think that Hawke had trusted her with something that must have been so precious. “It was because of you, actually,” she said, sadness creeping into her features, “after our visit. She started lending them to me to – I’m not sure, really – cheer me up?” She shrugged.

Anders turned away, face darkening. “You were very cross,” he tried.

“I was devastated, Anders.” Her voice wavered as she continued, “My heart broke for you…  _ and  _ for Justice. I still can’t understand why you’d feel so desperate,” her voice broke, but no tears came, and she swallowed hard, “so desperate as to resort to that, Anders.”

He furrowed his brow. “I don’t know if I can, anymore, either,” he said, resting his head on her shoulder.


End file.
